


Smoke and Lilacs

by buttcatcher



Series: Drogon ain't got nothin on Jaskier [5]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: I made Yennefer sort of a bitch in this one, M/M, Oh, and make no mistake, bratty bards and sassy sorceresses is the alternate title for this, gonna eat a deer, i love her but Jas needs to have a discussion with her, this one is a long one, tw for animal death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:48:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24463021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttcatcher/pseuds/buttcatcher
Summary: Geralt might be an infuriatingly dense man with the emotional capacity of one of Roach’s shits, but the heart that beats beneath that mutagen strengthened chest is infalliblygood.Jaskier had seen truly bad people; people who were monsters through and through no matter what form they took. Humans, monsters, animals. They could be one in the same, and more often than not, were a horrid mix of the two.The witcher is nothing like the monster the human race tries to make him out to be, nor is he the abomination the monsters of the Continent fear him to be.Yes, he has hurt Jaskier. Yes, he has said things that no friend would say to another. Yes, he turned his back to Destiny and suffered greatly for it, and Jaskier as well by extension.But Geralt is worth it.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Drogon ain't got nothin on Jaskier [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1758499
Comments: 77
Kudos: 1029





	Smoke and Lilacs

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm going back to work full time next week, probably gonna be working overtime actually. These updates will be a little slower but I have the entire series planned out and drafted.

The night drags on like it had when Jaskier slept alone on the midway point down that blasted mountain where everything fell apart. Seconds feel like hours as he lays on his side curled around the only pillow his room offered. The mattress beneath him feels more like a slab of rocks than a bed, and the lack of comfort does not help in his sleeping endeavor. 

Suffice to say, after he had all but demanded Geralt leave him alone, give him time to think, there was no way he was catching anything resembling rest. His mind replayed the moment those familiar yellow eyes broke his gaze and turned to the floor, the very picture of defeat. Never had he seen the witcher so docile, so placating. It was inherently _wrong_ to see such a strong man bend like nothing more than a weed in the wind. Jaskier nearly didn’t believe what he was seeing when the silver haired man gave the smallest of nods before turning to leave with one last dejected look.

Geralt’s departure leaves a void in Jaskier’s chest he hasn’t been able to ignore the past few years. It was one thing to throw himself into wandering aimlessly around the Continent to try and bury his heartache, but actually _filling_ the emptiness left in his chest was another struggle entirely. The ache twists through his being and stings something fierce, leaving devastation in its wake as it wreaks havoc on his mind and soul. 

Briefly, around the third month of dragging himself through the swampy bowels of Velen, he remembers wondering if Geralt was worth all the heartbreak. If he was worth the hell Jaskier was putting himself through. 

The thought was banished almost as quick as it had come. 

Geralt might be an infuriatingly dense man with the emotional capacity of one of Roach’s shits, but the heart that beats beneath that mutagen strengthened chest is infallibly _good._

Jaskier had seen truly bad people; people who were monsters through and through no matter what form they took. Humans, monsters, animals. They could be one in the same, and more often than not, were a horrid mix of the two.

The witcher is nothing like the monster the human race tries to make him out to be, nor is he the abomination the monsters of the Continent fear him to be.

Yes, he has hurt Jaskier. Yes, he has said things that no friend would say to another. Yes, he turned his back to Destiny and suffered greatly for it, and Jaskier as well by extension.

But Geralt is worth it.

Weak rays of morning light slowly flicker into the cramped room through the cracked window as the sun inches higher in the sky. It’s barely past dawn and already Jaskier can’t wait to move, to leave this place, to put an end to the stalemate and finally stop _hurting._

So really, he can’t be blamed for the way he tries to smooth out the slept in wrinkles of his golden doublet and runs a quick hand through his greasy locks to rope them into some sort of order and quickly packs his few belongings. 

However this talk is going to go, he needs to be prepared.

Be prepared to flee at a moment’s notice if things don’t go the way he hopes they do. Realistically, he knows Geralt has trouble expressing himself and interacting with beings that aren’t his horse. He knows the pain the witcher suffered throughout his long lifetime, knows the feeling of abandonment the witcher still feels to this day.

He knows all of it. Understands it; is empathetic to it, really. So much so that he knows whatever is about to happen between them has about as much a chance of going well as a blasted coin toss. 

Still. Jaskier owes it to them both to try.

He almost feels bad as he clears out his property from the room and heads down the hall toward the room he knows holds his old travel companion and his Child Surprise. 

Wooden floorboards that have seen better days creak under his shifting weight as he stands outside his old friend’s room. Jaskier is acutely aware that Geralt can undoubtedly smell his presence as he raises a trembling hand to knock once on the door.

The sound of muffled shuffling from beyond the slab of wood meets Jaskier’s ears before footsteps stomp toward the doorway.

A frazzled looking Geralt swings open the door before Jaskier can get a second knock in. White hair pulled back in clumps are falling out of their place, the backlight of early dawn causing the dirty and out of place strands to appear as a sort of halo around his head. His skin is paler than usual and the bags under his eyes betray his lack of sleep.

He looks like something a Cockatrice shit out.

Jaskier feels his heart give a painful tug at the image the larger than life man in front of him paints but steels himself and marches into the room like he isn’t about to burst into tears.

Cirilla is sitting up on the small mattress shoved into the corner of the room beneath the window, her small form bundled up in the sparse moth bitten blankets. A tiny fist rubs at her eyes as she struggles with the early hour, her hair an absolute mess. 

“Jaskier.” Geralt breathes, his armorless shoulders immediately sagging as though the mere sight of Jaskier is enough to put him at ease. Those dangerous tree trunks the witcher calls his thighs are clad in his typical skin tight leather trousers and his thickly muscled arms and torso are clothed in a soft black cotton shirt, one of the rougher ones the witcher owns, if Jaskier is seeing right, and oh, how he yearns to throw himself into an embrace he has desired ever since the day Geralt held him close as the Djinn wrecked his throat. 

But he knows he can’t.

Knows he can’t let this go and sweep it under the rug like he always does. Can’t excuse the actions of the man he loves if he is to continue accompanying him, continue subjecting his fragile heart to the one person in the world who can utterly destroy him with a single sentence.

“Good mornin’,” Cirilla mumbles as she offers him a sleepy eyed smile. The cloying scent of herbs strewn around the room is familiar to Jaskier’s nose, as are the glass bottles he knows house witcher potions. Only half of them are full where they’re littered around the floor, and the mortar and pestle beside them are filled with a dark green paste as though the user had abandoned the ingredients in a rush.

Had Geralt stayed up all night making potions?

Jaskier tears his eyes from the surprising scene on the floor with great effort to offer a blinding smile toward Cirilla. “Good morning, dear Ciri! I hope you had a fulfilling night’s sleep; the closest village to this one is about a four days ride away, I’m afraid.”

Her exasperated groan only makes Geralt shift uncomfortably in front of Jaskier, obviously out of his element with the situation they’re in as he appears to struggle with himself to find the words he wants to say.

It’s so familiar it physically hurts.

Jaskier sighs. “Geralt,” he begins, pretending not to notice the witcher straighten as though frozen to the spot at the mere utterance of his name. “I have some things I need to say to you, and I would appreciate it if you would refrain from speaking until I have said my part.”

Cirilla and Geralt glance at each other for a moment before the witcher nods and slowly takes a seat at the edge of the mattress while Ciri scoots herself further up toward a headboard that has seen better days to give him space. Neither of the two make a sound as Jaskier grabs the single chair in the room and positions it a foot away from Geralt before seating himself.

It’s a mirror of their positions last night. Geralt seems to come to the same conclusion as he takes in the lute strapped to Jaskier’s back and the various little bags he carries on his person while traveling.

"I need you to understand just how deeply you’ve hurt me, Geralt.” Jaskier allows himself to cross his legs at the knee for some semblance of protection, some buffer between himself and the man who his heart belongs to. “This is not just about what happened during the dragon hunt; I’m talking about all the years we spent side by side, living in each other’s pockets. How time after time, I forgave you because I know the life of a witcher is not easy.”

It’s obvious CIrilla is listening even as she busies her hands with fingering some of the knots in her hair to try and loosen them, her wide green eyes peeking at them between a curtain of pale blonde.

Jaskier presses on before he loses his nerve.

“I would have gladly walked the open roads with you until my body couldn’t keep up anymore. Life with you was so exciting, so _bright_ in a way it has never been before. Back then, your insults and blatant disregard for me were easier to brush off, but Geralt, you have a way of wearing down even the most forgiving of people.”

Geralt keeps his head bowed as he stares at his scarred hands, a single finger the size of two of Jaskier’s own as he clenches and unclenches his fists. 

Suddenly, Jaskier is reminded of that fateful day. The day where he had been pulled onto Roach, his throat ravaged by a Djinn and choking on blood that was slowly filling his lungs. The way Geralt had rode the poor horse as fast as she could go, desperation rolling off him in waves a complete contrast to the hesitant _”Yeah, we… won’t let that happen.”_ when Chireadan told the witcher of his possible demise.

Geralt had been such a study in contradictions. His gruff words said one thing while his actions said another, and Jaskier had been entirely too pissed off at himself for suffering the curse rather than absorbing the magic to decipher the truth.

That memory alone gives him the strength to push forward.

“I can’t help but feel you only sought me out because for some confounding reason, you think I’m cursed. So forgive me if I take all your years of not valuing me more seriously than an apology that is only words.”

“It’s not because of the curse.” Geralt forces out under his breath, avoiding the disappointed glare Jaskier gives him for speaking when asked not to.

“So if you hadn’t suspected I’d been cursed, would you have waited until I was old and grey before trying to hunt me down in my last years of life to apologize?”

“No,” Geralt looks horrified as wide catlike eyes regard him desperately, “no, I would never. I’ve been looking for you the moment I realized the mistake I made!”

The mere thought of Jaskier aging and becoming nothing but a mere cog in the machine of life seems to terrify Geralt in a way Jaskier has rarely seen from the taciturn man. There was so little the witcher hadn’t experienced in his long life; the death of humans is surely something he continues to live through time and time again, and yet the idea that Jaskier himself may follow suit seems implausible to the White Wolf.

“You searched for me?”

This time it is Cirilla who chimes in. “Geralt ran poor Roach ragged trying to find you.” 

Jakier can see Geralt swallow, no doubt biting back whatever it is he wants to say. The white haired witcher looks so contrite and Cirilla looks equally weighed down by guilt for reasons he can’t fathom.

The child is blameless in all of this. She is nothing more than a bystander in the whole mess that is the history of Jaskier and Geralt. What could she be so guilty of? 

This whole situation is quickly becoming horrible and Jaskier refuses to draw it out as he feels a headache coming on. “Listen to me, dear witcher,” Jaskier murmurs as he reaches a trembling hand forward to cup the chiseled jaw that has appeared in every one of his fantasies since their first meeting. Rough pricks of a few day’s worth of stubble scrape his hand, though nothing can tear his focus away from the slight way Geralt leans his face into his caress. “I know you to be a man of action rather than words. I understand that words are more my expertise, and I am willing to forgive after the apology you gave me last night, but I ask you to promise me something.”

Pale eyelids that had fluttered shut as Jaskier ran the pad of his thumb under sleep deprived eyes slowly open to reveal the otherworldly yellow irises that hide beneath. Geralt searches his face in silence for a moment before grunting in a tone Jaskier knows is affirmation.

“I need you to promise you'll make an effort to show me how much you care. _Show me_ that you are truly sorry, and I will travel with you again.” 

Relief banishes the anticipation on Geralt’s face like the sun lighting up the sky after a storm, thick dark brows relaxing and the stress lines holding his mouth taut smoothing. Broad shoulders sag as a short sigh leaves the witcher’s barrel chest, the side of his face still cupped in Jaskier’s hand. 

“Geralt, you have to promise me you won’t throw me away to chase after Yennefer again. That… I can't live through another incident like that. I can’t bear to stand by and watch you cut yourself over and over on a blade disguised as a sorceress.” 

Geralt has the gall to appear as though he wants to argue, wants to insist that wasn’t what he had done time and time again, but Jaskier is too old to believe in lies born of reflex any longer. He is too wise to allow himself to be subjected to that sort of betrayal again. Yet he is willing to place trust in a man he knows is true to his word, willing to give his bruised heart away one more time. Something must show on his face because Geralt quickly backs down and averts his eyes as he agrees quietly. 

“Yen will always be a part of my life,” The witcher begins after a moment, “our lives are connected through the wish I made. She will always have a part of me whether I want her to or not, but you’re right. I’m sorry for the way I followed after her blindly and left you the way I did. You do not deserve it and never have.”

At the mention of the wish that cut Jaskier deeper than anything else, he feels himself wince just a tad at another fresh wave of sorrow. But Geralt had apologized, agreed to put effort into maintaining their friendship

It is all he could have hoped for.

A rustling of sheets alerts Jaskier to the way Cirilla shuffles closer to Geralt and peers at him thoughtfully. “Is he coming to Kaer Morhen with us now that you’ve apologized?”

Jaskier doesn’t miss the way Geralt tries to follow his hand when he pulls it away, the skin of his palm tingling as he folds it on his lap. He _also_ doesn’t miss how that battle hardened face turns to him with such blatant hope.

Gods, does he love this man.

More than once he was asked how he could read the stone faced witcher so well. More than once he had laughed at curious townsfolk and asked in return, _”What, you can’t? He’s so obvious!”_

It’s all in the eyes. Whether Geralt knows it or not, his eyes hold so much emotion in them; the way they twinkle like a pile of gold when he’s amused, or how they flash in the dark like they have some light of their own, or how that pale skin crinkles at the corner of his eyes when he flashes a sharp toothed smile. 

The famed White Wolf is an open book to those who take the time to learn its chapters. 

Their conversation is far from over. There are many things Jaskier wants to discuss with this oblivious man, yet it does not feel like the right time to do so. They are all exhausted and emotionally drained from the confrontations and accusations; it’s unlikely pushing the issue would result in anything good.

So Jaskier loosely crosses his arms, leans back in his chair, and fixes them both with a raised eyebrow. “You’re taking her to Kaer Morhen? Why, Geralt, I’m insulted. Twenty years of traveling by your side and not once have I been invited to the famous Witcher Keep!”

He means it as a joke of course, some levity to lighten the mood, but Geralt actually looks vaguely guilty, the poor sod. 

“Twenty years?” Cirilla cuts in before the witcher can speak, confusion pulling her delicate brows together to form a crease between them. “If you’ve traveled with Geralt for that long, how old were you when you started tagging along?”

Ah. Jasier would have to be more careful from now on. Geralt is as dense as a bag of bricks, bless him, but the Lioness of Cintra certainly has a good head on her shoulders.

It makes him both proud and simultaneously terrified.

“That’s a story for another time,” He waves his hand lazily in the air before pushing himself to his feet in one fluid movement. “We will have plenty of days to discuss it on our way to Kaer Morhen.”

The mention of him tagging along causes Cirilla’s face to brighten. “You’re coming with us?”

Jaskier feels horrible as he gives her a sad smile. “I will stay with you both until you reach the edge of the Keep. I know I will not be welcomed in a fortress crawling with witchers.” he shrugs his shoulders to try and aim for nonchalance, though he knows he fails when Geralt frowns at him. “I will stay in Oxenfurt for the time being. If you should need me, dear Ciri, you know how to call me.”

Geralt frowns harder, no doubt confused about his conversation with Cirilla, but quickly moves past it. “You are more than welcome at Kaer Morhen. Vesemir and the others have been wanting to meet you for years.”

Shock must show on his face because Geralt immediately looks as close to embarrassed as Jaskier has ever seen him, and that is saying something because the man has zero shame. “Excuse me?” Jaskier gapes.

“They want to meet you. They will allow you to stay. I didn’t mention it because you always seemed so excited to return to Oxenfurt. I didn’t want to make you feel obligated to forgo visiting your old campus.”

Jaskier can read inbetween the lines of what Geralt says and doesn’t say, and right now, what he hears is _I didn’t want to make you give up going to Oxenfurt, the place you always say you love, to come be with me in a cold and decrepit castle fortress._

It is clear Geralt is trying; is pushing past his reluctance to speak to prove to Jaskier that he is making an effort, and his heart aches for an entirely new reason at the display. 

His heart throbs as a wave of hope crashes through his chest.

To be honest, all he did in Oxenfurt during the winter was teach a few classes and spend the rest of his days wandering the busy streets, allowing his mind to wander. At least once every few minutes he would find himself wondering how Geralt was doing, if he and all his brothers were hunkered down in the Keep and keeping busy. 

If Geralt felt the absence by his side as strongly as Jaskier felt the witcher’s.

Still… wishful thinking and having an explicit invitation are two different things. “So what you’re saying is you would like me to stay at Kaer Morhen with you this winter?”

Jaskier knows he’s being a shit for making Geralt verbally express his desires like this, but how else is he to know for sure?

“Yes. Jaskier, come with us.” Geralt nods at him. “Cirilla will be trained by the witchers of the School of the Wolf and stay there to protect her from Nilfgaard.”

A bright grin that hurts his cheeks spreads across Jaskier’s face at that. Sweet Melitele; how he has waited to hear those words, to spend a winter with Geralt and keep him safe. 

“Well, what are we waiting for?”

*

It is almost as though no time has passed. Jaskier takes his spot beside Roach and is more than happy to keep up a conversation with Cirilla from where she’s seated in the saddle in front of Geralt. 

“No, really!” Jaskier insists as Cirilla gapes down at him, the even gait of Roach’s hooves hitting the dirt a soothing background noise to their conversation.

“You can’t be serious. That makes no sense!” 

“It’s true!” Jaskier crows, delighted at the peal of laughter he pulls from the princess. “For some ungodly reason, Geralt had this obsession with collecting and keeping broken rakes _Rakes,_ of all things. I was only slightly relieved when he moved to hoarding rope ladders.”

“I told you,” Geralt sighs, his breath ruffling Cirilla’s hair, “I can take them apart and use the components for crafting.”

Jaskier shoots him a playful look. “Is that why you also hoarded sticks of butter?”

Cirilla looks vaguely disgusted as Geralt gives a shrug as if to say, ‘food is food’.

Days go by as autumn slowly creeps in, most animals gathering food for the winter that will no doubt come sooner than it had last year. They discuss how Geralt came to find Cirilla and about her gift during their travels to catch each other up to speed on what has transpired in the time they’ve been apart, both studiously refusing to talk about the song Jaskier knows Geralt heard him sing back in the tavern they reunited in while Cirilla is present, and before Jaskier knows it, two weeks have gone by, the passing of time drowned out in the comfort of routine.

Today, they started out early and managed to keep their pace until the sun begins to set behind lush mountains and the temperature begins to drop as night sets its cold shadow on the land.

The cool autumn air feels like a balm against his skin. Jaskier theorizes it must have something to do with his heritage that keeps him warm in even the most harsh of climates. It isn’t like he’s allowed back home to ask anyone, and Villentretenmerth hadn’t stuck around very long for conversation after his child had been saved, so he’s not available for questioning either. Maybe it’s the dragonfire held so close to his heart that keeps his skin toasty, but after living this long, Jaskier is just glad he doesn’t have to bundle up every winter.

That might become a problem once they reach Kaer Morhen.

Still, he does not think about it too hard as darkness finally settles in and they are forced to pause their journey to set up camp just out of the way of the main road, far enough away to be invisible to the wandering eye but close enough to know where to go if they have to flee. 

Geralt and Cirilla make quick work of setting up bedrolls and a campfire as Jaskier busies himself with sorting their things and making sure Roach has a large patch of grass to feast on. The three of them work like a well oiled machine, and before long, they’re sitting around the campfire sharing what measly portions of food Geralt could purchase from merchants willing to sell to him in the last town they passed through.

It is not nearly enough. Both Jaskier and Geralt wordlessly give Cirilla more than half of their own share despite the gnawing hunger in their guts, and as Geralt huffs a weary sigh and rises off his bedroll to glance over to his swords, Jaskier decides he can give the man a break just this once. 

After all, he had spent the entire day walking beside Jaskier, content to let Cirilla ride Roach.

“Don’t worry, dear heart, I’ll fetch us some dinner.” The bard says as he hops to his feet and brushes imaginary dust off emerald green trousers that have admittedly seen better days. 

Never before has he allowed himself to hunt for food the way Geralt does. It would draw too many questions about how he, a lowly human bard, could catch and kill animals many times larger than himself with nothing but a dagger or his bare hands. No, Geralt was more than content to drag his broken body into the woods and hunt down their dinner after hunts time and time again, and frankly, Jaskier was sick of the guilt.

He could provide for them just this once.

After all, they are his hoard.

“‘Dear heart’?” Ciri repeats from where she’s sitting between them, a look of wonder on her face. “I saw Geralt break a Drowner’s face with his fist for _looking_ at him funny, and he allows you to call him that?”

“‘Allows’ isn’t the word I would use.” Geralt huffs but quickly shuts his mouth at the look Jaskier sends him over the flames of the firepit, daring him to continue. 

“If he has a problem with it then he would have to stop being so noble, and you and I both know that will never happen,” Jaskier quips as he lovingly sets his lute down where he had previously been sitting on his bedroll, mindful to lay it down gently on the worn fabric.

Cirilla looks all too pleased with this information and Jaskier can’t fight the smile tugging at his lips.

“Some berries will be fine. Don’t go far enough to where I can’t sense you.” Geralt says it with a tired voice, but Jaskier counts it as a win because the witcher is showing _concern_ for his well being. 

And no matter what others might think, he _knows_ Geralt cares about him in his own emotionally stunted way. Always has, though not outwardly most of the time. 

Jaskier scoffs. “‘Berries’, he says. I’m not hunting for berries. But thank you; I will stay within earshot.” And with that, he enters the woods around them with a spring in his step, content to hunt down some unfortunate little creature for his witcher to roast over the fire.

Dead leaves and foliage crunch under his boots as he skirts along the edge of Geralt’s senses while allowing his own to slowly come forth, careful to stay far enough away to keep his own magic hidden from the witcher’s keen nose.

After the high and eventual low that comes with transforming after a long period of time, Jaskier has to admit he feels much lighter on his feet as he weaves around trees and over moss covered logs, limber and swift in a distinctly inhuman way. With the rush of letting some of his own chaos flow between the cracks of his iron self control, Jaskier almost feels lightheaded as he all but flies over the forest floor in search of prey, every inch the apex predator dragons were once feared to be.

An unfortunate deer grazing by an ancient tree off to the distance on his right is what he sets his sights on, its antlers large and body filled out, plenty of meat on its bones to keep them fed.

It’s all too easy to crouch in the underbrush and allow the thrill of the chase to sing in his blood. For so long he has gone without this, without giving into his baser instincts, that he almost misses when he lunges for the animal’s neck, snapping it between his hands in one clean move before the creature can even comprehend what happened.

Ever since he burned that ragtag group of Nilfgaardian soldiers to the ground, his body has been screaming at him to let loose, to _let go._ It is an unfortunate side effect of transforming after so many decades of keeping his true nature under lock and key. 

It is dangerous to indulge himself like this, but Jaskier knows he deserves a reprieve; deserves to be himself for a moment.

The rush of a good kill brings a grin to his lips as he says a silent ‘thank you’ to the beast for providing food for himself and his hoard. The carcass is heavy as he hoists it up and over the breadth of his shoulders, the short brown fur of the animal tickling the back of his neck. His doublet is thankfully more clean than he expected, so Jaskier is more than content to take his time getting back to camp as the adrenaline from the hunt slowly dies down.

That is, until a shift in the air halts him in his tracks. 

To a regular human, he doesn’t think it would be noticeable. There are no new smells, no sounds that are any different than before, but the hairs on his arms stand on end at the bitter scent of magic he can taste on his tongue when he sucks in a breath through clenched teeth. 

It is familiar magic.

Not even an Alp could outrun him as he tears back through the forest in the direction of where he came, panic leaving a sour taste in his mouth as he pushes branches out of the way, unencumbered by the weight of the deer slung across his shoulders. The light of the campfire is just visible between thick dark ferns, and he manages to stumble just to the edge of the clearing right as dirt around their campsite shifts and a portal opens a few feet away from where Geralt has Ciri behind his back, silver sword drawn and prepared to cut down whoever is about to invade their space.

Cold dread sinks like a boulder in his stomach as Jaskier awaits the inevitable, watching just behind the edge of the treeline.

Gods, could his day get any worse? 

<”Yen?” Geralt allows his sword to point towards the ground as soon as the shape of a woman steps out of the portal, and Jaskier can’t help but wrinkle his nose at the overbearing scent of lilacs and gooseberries.

Yennefer. Yennefer of fucking Vengerberg found them and is standing in the middle of their campsite looking every bit the angel Jaskier knows she is not.

“Geralt.” She begins by way of greeting, her form fitting black dress accentuating her curves as she turns to glance at the witcher, a stoic expression on her perfectly done up face. “Long time no see.”

Geralt appears just as confused as Jaskier feels. “What are you doing here?” He asks as Cirilla slowly peeks her face out from around the witcher’s hulking form to stare at the newcomer. 

Black curls bounce around her shoulders as Yennefer studies the area around them. “Always the conversationalist.” She quips back. “I sensed a dramatic spike in chaos around here; figured you ran into some serious trouble and came to see if my assistance is required.”

“How did you know where I am?”

She waves a hand as though to dismiss his curiosity. “Just a small tracking spell on that horse of yours. Oh, don’t look at me like that. If it makes you feel better, that damn Djinn wish you made makes it easy enough to locate you without the spell.”

“That does not make me feel better.”

“Well, good thing I didn’t truly ask for your opinion.”

“You’re Yennefer?” The girl behind Geralt speaks up before her white haired protector can start an argument, her confidence slowly coming back once she realizes this witch isn’t here to harm them. “I’ve heard about you.”

Yennefer’s purple eyes immediately soften when they land on Ciri. “Oh?” She casts a quick side eye to the witcher before walking toward them and crouching so she can be eye level with Cirilla. “And how do you know my name?”

The lioness of Cintra quickly draws herself up to her full height and visibly fights to keep the haunted look off her face. “In my dreams. I was told to find Geralt, and through Geralt I would meet someone named ‘Yennefer’.”

If Yennefer is disappointed Geralt had not been the one to tell the child about her, she doesn’t show it. Instead she straightens up and gives both the child and the witcher a searching look that slowly melts into a soft smile. It is obvious she wants to ask about either the child’s ‘dreams’ or the frankly frightening aura of Chaos surrounding her, but bites back her inquiries. “Well.” She begins as she reaches out a perfectly manicured hand to shake the much smaller one Cirilla gives her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. What shall I call you?”

Cirilla sends a quick look to Geralt before the witcher grunts and gives her a nearly imperceptible nod. “I am Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Lioness of Cintra.”

Delicate features twist in shock as Yennefer sends a sharp look toward Geralt before her surprise morphs into something a little less intense, making a show of peeking behind the large man in search of Jaskier.

“You’ve replaced your barker with a child princess?” She rests her hands on her hips in a way that makes her appear even more elegant, if that was even possible. “Well, can’t say it’s not an improvement.”

And that’s his cue. “Oh, thank you but no, I’m very much still here.” Jaskier quips in a forcibly peppy tone as he steps into the clearing from the treeline with the carcass of a full grown buck on his shoulders, carrying the corpse as though it weighs nothing. Her amethyst eyes widen briefly for a moment when she sees the twisted neck of the deer. He can see the moment she recovers and her eyes roll skyward in exasperation at his arrival. 

Even in her obvious irritation, Jaskier has to admit she is just as breathtaking as ever. 

Jealousy does not begin to cover it, and Jaskier has long since given up taming that side of himself. Pride is a strong trait in any dragon, and he was certainly never lacking in that department. This sorceress had bruised his pride and hurt his beloved too many times for him to truly make an effort to control himself around her.

“Jaskier.” She says in greeting.

“Yennefer.”

The sorceress gives him a blatant once over. “You look a little pale. Have you been sleeping in any horse stalls since we last met?”

“Oh, you know me,” Jaskier waves a lazy hand around before fixing her with a grin as the deer drops from his shoulders with a sickening thud by his feet. Glassy, lifeless eyes stare up at the sorceress as he speaks, the flames of the fire making shapes dance across the deer’s irises. “Always up for trying something new.”

Jaskier knows he’s too old to engage in petty squabbles such as this. His brethren would be ashamed of him if they could see him now, acting more like the human he masqueraded as rather than the heir to the dragon hoard of Lettenhove. 

He doesn’t care. Villentretenmerth and Saesenthessis are the only ones of his kind whose opinion hold any merit to him anyway.

But gods, is it fun to be petty.

“Indeed.” Yennefer gives him one more once over before ignoring him completely and turning her attention back to Geralt. “Are you going to tell me why chaos cloaks this child so heavily?”

And there goes any hope for a quiet night.

“She is Pavetta’s daughter. You know this.” Geralt sighs. “She’s a child of the Elder Blood. Was actually hoping you’d be willing to help teach her how to control it.”

Jaskier knows witchers only use a fraction of the magic that sorceresses wield. Can only use the signs they are taught, if that, so it makes sense to ask the most powerful sorceress they know to help train the lion cub.

It still doesn’t make Jaskier feel any more on board with this idea than he had when Geralt brought it up a few days ago off the road of some village on their way into Kaedwen.

“First you insult me with that wish of yours, and _now_ you want me to babysit a princess?”

“Please, Yen. I can’t teach her what you can. Witcher signs aren’t-”

“I know, I know.” Yennefer makes a show of being irritated before sighing and fixing Cirilla with a small smile. “Come, then, Cirilla. If you are to learn to control your chaos, then we must go to where every sorceress worth their salt learns.”

That had not been part of the discussion. Geralt had not said a single thing about Yennefer taking the child from them, and like hell Jaskier is going to stand for it. 

He had only just got Geralt back; Yennefer would be taking Cirilla over his dead body. 

Almost as if Geralt can read his thoughts, the witcher sends a glare Yennefer’s way. “Not Aretuza. Kaer Morhen is the safest place for her right now.”

Yennefer frowns. “A child of the Elder Blood is safer in a decrepit keep teeming with what’s left of the witchers?” It’s said with a slight teasing tone and directed toward Geralt, yet Jaskier feels himself bristling at the jab to the man his heart considers his hoard.

“Geralt is right,” Jaskier says as he seats himself primly on a fallen log near the fire, the glow of the flames giving his eyes an almost dangerous edge in the light. “She has a better chance at the keep than anywhere else on this blasted Continent.”

“Is that so?”

Jaskier resists the urge to roll his eyes. Why is this woman always so hell bent on being difficult? If he didn’t know better, he would say her and the witcher deserve each other, for their pigheadedness truly knows no bounds. “What, would you rather stow her away in the cottage of some unknown noble you’ve brainwashed into hosting a townwide orgy?”

Cirilla audibly chokes on her next breath at that. Yennefer is suddenly sneering down at him as though he is nothing but a pebble in her path, her anger making her already stunning eyes practically glow with magic. “Aretuza may not be what it once was in its glory, but I would _never_ bring that child somewhere I deemed unsafe.”

“And how can we trust your judgement? You decided to enslave an entire town for _fun_ ; that is not the mark of person in possession of all their marbles, my dear.”

It is nothing more than a pissing contest. Every sorceress he has ever come across has been like this-- so confident in their own harnessed chaos that they think themselves mightier than others, believe themselves to know things they know not a thing about. They think they are a formidable match against wielders of Old Magic, of beasts of legend.

And oh, how he wishes he could prove her wrong. How he yearns to give her an inkling to who he really is, how little her magic truly affects him.

But he can’t.

That would mean confessing to a confidant who would turn around and most likely tell Geralt, the one person in the world he wants to protect from the truth for as long as he can.

For once he knows, he will be put in far more danger than he is already in.

“Aretuza is the best place for her.” Yennefer argues in a tone that brooks no argument, arms crossed as Jaskier tears himself from his thoughts and focuses on the present.

“And why is that?” Jaskier knows he is doing nothing but stirring the pot of her anger. Can feel the warning look Geralt is giving him, but quickly shrugs it off. 

“Tissaia and the others will protect her and teach her to control her power.”

When Jaskier chances a glance at Cirilla, he feels himself stiffen at the look of apprehension on her young face. The way she keeps looking between the two of them makes something sour settle in his stomach. He clenches his jaw defiantly as he meets that purple gaze once more. “Forgive me, my fair witch, but I will not allow her to be brought to a castle where the walls have ears and the halls speak. Don’t try to lie to me; you know I speak the truth.”

Pearly white teeth flash as Yennefer throws her hands up in frustration. “What do you know of Aretuza? A mere bard could only _dream_ of being invited there.”

Jaskier makes a show of inspecting his nails. “Been there, seen it, didn’t care for it.”

Confusion melts the anger on her face before a foreboding sense of curiosity lights up her eyes.

He feels the exact moment the sorceress uses her chaos to try and get a peek into his mind. 

It’s insulting that she feels the right to invade his privacy like this, _especially_ in the presence of the girl she claims she wants to teach. Granted, Cirilla doesn’t have a grip on her power, but he can see the way her emerald eyes widen at the prickling of magic in the air, able to sense when it is in use around her.. 

Yennefer has a penchant for sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong, and he almost can’t keep up the innocent facade when he catches the edges of her magic trying to worm it’s way into his head and absorbs it, taking it into himself and transforming it into energy to be used later.

The way her eyes widen and those perfectly shaped lips part in surprise are almost worth the pure look of confusion from the camp’s other two occupants.

At least Roach doesn't seem to care, more occupied with absolutely demolishing a patch of lush grass a few feet from camp.

The witch obviously isn’t used to her magic being rejected so easily. It must be a blow to her ego that of all people, the bumbling bard she thought of as nothing more than a stray dog is the one who can force her out of his head without so much as a blink. Has the pure _willpower_ to block her out.

Even _Geralt_ had fallen victim to her probing. 

“What are you?” She demands, in a fighting stance at once, hands spread on either side of her as though ready to cast a spell at a moment’s notice. Geralt is quick to run to his side, a baffled look on his face as he stares between the two of them before glancing down at his medallion.

A medallion that remains still as soon as Yennefer calls off her magic.

“It’s just Jaskier, Yen,” He grunts, subtly moving so he is within arms reach if the witch loses her cool and tries something. 

Jaskier doesn’t know what Geralt sees in her. She is a stunning product of chaos and has that distinctly human trait of wanting everything, never being happy with what she has and always desiring more, but that is it. Yes, she is a powerful sorceress, but Jaskier has known many sorceresses in his lifetime, and this one is the only one in recent memory to use it to read minds, break hearts, and enslave entire towns on nothing more than a whim. 

“I live to entertain.” Jaskier swipes his lute from his bedroll and into his lap as he plucks a couple of awkward chords with wiggling fingers to prove Geralt’s point.

Yennefer doesn’t buy it. “You absorbed my magic,” She begins, a tightness around her mouth that Jaskier would laugh at if he knew she wasn’t capable of hurting the witcher and Cirilla, accidentally or otherwise. “Humans cannot do that.”

A hum leaves Jaskier’s throat as he assumes the air of someone terribly put upon. “Mother always said I was special. Who knew that ‘special’ could mean being a sponge for magic from very scary women?”

At this, Geralt sighs in exasperation and puts an arm in the air between them, exhaustion clouding his scent. “It’s just Jas, Yennefer. He’s the same as he’s always been.”

“Geralt,” She warns, clearly unhappy about being interrupted, and Geralt, the lovable oaf that he is, shakes his head at her with the clear message of ‘drop it’. 

“Are you staying with us for dinner?” Jaskier asks happily as he gestures to the dead deer they have yet to skin and roast, more than happy to abandon this line of conversation once and for all. 

The face Yennefer pulls is something of legends. Not even a rock troll stuck in a rain storm could conjure up an expression of such strong distaste. “No, I have somewhere I need to be.” A flick of her wrist opens another portal in the same space the first one was conjured, the hum of magic strong in the air. “You would do well to allow me to at least portal Cirilla into the Keep.” She says as she stops right in front of the swirling vortex.

All four of them know they’re only a week and a half away from Kaer Morhen at least; there isn’t much that will get in their way after they hit the border of the Keep’s land in a few days. No mortals dare stray so close to the fortress of legends. 

Jaskier sees the way Geralt’s face goes even paler than usual at the mention of stepping through a portal. “No portals.” 

Yennefer turns her attention to Cirilla, who glances quickly between both Geralt and Jaskier before shaking her head at the witch. “Thank you, but I need to stay with them. Someone needs to make sure they’re safe.”

The sorceress's lips twitch into an actual grin as she gives the child a soft look. “Very well. Do try to stay safe in my absence.” And with that, Yennefer steps through the portal and disappears.

**Author's Note:**

> I really hope this isn't dragging on and on-- I promise it's all necessary for the next parts. The very last installment will be a bonus smut one, which I am very excited to write.
> 
> Shout out to Geralt the avid junk collector who breaks into houses and steals very important items such as rope ladders and sticks of butter. (Witcher 3 Wild Hunt is def wild lol)
> 
> Please let me know what you think. Your comments and support make me smile at work on bad days :)


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